


Tell Mr. Man With Impossible Plans To Just Leave Me Alone

by lakeshoredive



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A Steve Rogers Fix-It ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiverse, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not a complete endgame fix it, POV Alternating, Some angst, and author does as author wants, author doesn't understand how the multiverse works, because that's my brand, so there are no rules, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 04:10:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lakeshoredive/pseuds/lakeshoredive
Summary: But that nagging feeling won’t leave him alone, so he knows, knows he’s about to be hit by something.He just didn’t think it would be literal. The particles are flying past him, or he’s flying towards them, trying to get home to Bucky, to Sam, to everyone, when he takes a monumental hit to the side. It knocks to the left, and he goes spiraling into the side of the tunnel. The wall gives an inch as he pummels into it, pure energy scraping against the helmet of his quantum suit. Scott had been very adamant about staying in the middle of the course.In other words, Steve's trip home from returning the stones doesn't go as planned.





	Tell Mr. Man With Impossible Plans To Just Leave Me Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a fix-it for Steve's ending because Steve's ending was garbage. The title was taken from Elliot Smith's Waltz #2 (It's a beautiful song I would highly recommend).

They say,  _ they _ being ominous as who really knows who  _ they _ are, so rather  _ it has been said-  _ that dogs can sense a natural disaster before it strikes. There  _ had _ been a dog in the apartment above his and Bucky’s- back in the 30s- who would shake and quake and whine every time a bad storm was about to sweep through New York. Steve isn’t really in the business of comparing himself to dogs, but Bucky was. Bucky, whose name drives a small stake through his heart every time he thinks it, used to say,  _ well shit, you’re like a that ole yapper above us aint ya?  _ And Steve would scowl and respond,  _ yea? how you reckon that, Buck?  _ And Bucky would grin real wide and say,  _ cuz you’re always sensin’ danger and gettin’ yourself involved punk.  _ It was a joke then. 

Steve isn’t in the business of comparing himself to dogs, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a gut attuned to disaster. Maybe it’s the serum, or maybe he’s always had it and the serum just  _ amplifies  _ it, but Steve has gotten rather good at knowing when general  _ wrong _ is afoot. 

Like right now. 

Something is coming or has come or is waiting for him on the other side of the quantum realm. He can feel it, deep in his bones. The tunnels whips and turns and winds like a shallow creek, quantum particles fly past his face, and he’s alone. 

Or at least he should be. 

But that nagging feeling won’t leave him alone, so he knows,  _ knows  _ he’s about to be hit by  _ something.  _

He just didn’t think it would be literal. The particles are flying past him, or he’s flying towards them, trying to get  _ home _ to Bucky, to Sam, to everyone, when he takes a monumental hit to the side. It knocks to the left, and he goes spiraling into the side of the tunnel. The wall gives an inch as he pummels into it, pure energy scraping against the helmet of his quantum suit. Scott had been  _ very  _ adamant about staying in the middle of the course. 

_ Look, I’m not saying I know what happens if you blow through the side of the tunnel, but I’m you’ll  _ _ probably _ _ disintegrate and that’s bad. So just- stay in yo’ lane.  _

Steve hopes he makes it back to tell Scott he was right. The heat inside his helmet is nearly unbearable, so much worse than any grenade blast, photon blast, or repulsor blast he’s ever taken. It feels like there are a thousand tiny suns all reaching their peak inside his helmet simultaneously. He just manages to get his footing to rip himself away from the wall, body twirling like a merry-go-round back towards the middle. 

The problem is that the quantum tunnel acts like an anti-gravity chamber, and there is nothing actually keeping him from tumbling into the other side of the tunnel.  _ It’s the laws of motion, Stevie,  _ Bucky’s voice inside his head tells him. He will remain in uniform motion unless another external force stops him. Right. He flails his arms, hands stretched out to find purchase on  _ anything  _ that will aid in steadying himself. The other side of the tunnel is approaching and he  _ knows,  _ just as he  _ knew  _ he wasn’t alone, he can’t take another hit to that wall. 

His hand hits something solid, and he fumbles for a moment to clasp onto it _ - _ stopping all momentum towards the other side. He breathes a sigh of relief now that the threat of disintegration no longer imminent. He rights himself, and only then does he take stock of the situation. He’s got his rock in a vice grip, which isn’t really a rock at all because it shifts and squishes with his hand movements.  _ A bicep perhaps?  _

Any relief he felt is quickly punched out of him when he looks up because in front of him is another person. Only it’s not  _ just  _ another person. It’s  _ him _ objectively speaking. His hair is a little shorter, military cut. And his nose isn’t crooked like it’s been broken in a back alley one too many times to heal proper. But still. 

That’s his face staring back at him behind a clear, rectangular mask that looked more like it belonged on a learn-to-snorkel trip than a quantum time-travel heist. Steve releases his doppleganger’s bicep like it’s burned him, forcing them apart, but  _ Other Steve _ , moving faster than he anticipated, snagged him by the arm with one hand, and grabbed him by the throat with the other, pulling him close. Steve’s hands fly up to clasp onto the one currently constricting his air flow. He gasps for breath that won’t come, and a grin, spine-crawling grin slowly sweeps across  _ Other Steve’s  _ face. It makes his stomach plummet to the ground. The expression is cruel and wicked and so unlike himself that he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this Steve, whoever he is, is  _ not  _ a good man. 

But really, what makes Steve, the  _ real  _ Steve, shiver are his eyes. They’re are cold and dead and dancing with an unhinged glint that doesn’t belong on the face of  _ Captain America _ . They scream  _ I know something you don’t.  _

Steve struggles against the hold on his throat, against the bruising grip on his arm. He manages a knee to  _ Other Steve’s  _ stomach, and the man doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t loosen his grip, doesn’t even seem to notice Steve did anything at all. Steve’s breaths are coming in short, sharp pants now. He’s choking and gasping on what little air will get through. Black spots are doing a whole gymnastic routine in his vision. He wants to fight back, wants to demand  _ who the hell are you and what the hell do you want,  _ but most importantly, wants to get him to  _ release his goddamn throat.  _

But he can’t do any of those things. He’s tired, the type of bone-aching weariness that comes with blowing past all his body’s limits. He blames it on the stones. Turns out, returning six stones made of pure power takes a heavy toll on a person. He might be worthy enough to wield the power of Thor, but he is still only one man. 

The black spots have become black splotches, taking up residence in most of his vision. He barely catches  _ Other Steve  _ mouthing, “ _ Goodbye, Captain,”  _ before he’s being hurtled across the tunnel with force akin to that of the Hulk. Steve looks up in time to see the grin on  _ Other Steve’s  _ face turn absolutely manic and he fucking  _ waves  _ at him in a mocking, derisive way. It’s so absurd that Steve, for a moment, thinks he  _ has  _ to be dreaming. That this is some horrid nightmare he’ll wake up from tomorrow. (And maybe all it is a nightmare- one long drawn out nightmare where Thanos doesn’t come and his friends don’t die in one way or another). 

But then his back hits the wall of the quantum tunnel, and the wall caves to his back and there’s  _ pain and pain and burning and pain.  _ It’s intense and hot and  _ hurts _ . Steve tastes iron on his tongue and smells burning fabric in his nose and hears screeching and shattering as he barrels through the tunnel and there still  _ oh so much pain-  _

And there’s nothing. Bleak nothingness enshrouds him, encases him a cocoon and crystalizes until he cannot see or hear or smell or touch.  _ This,  _ he thinks,  _ is oblivion.  _ He wonders about Thor’s  _ Valhalla _ and T’Challa’s  _ Djalia _ ,  and even about his own rendition of  _ Heaven _ , wonders if it’s real. If he’ll make it there. 

Perhaps he truly is gone- disintegrated like Scott has said- and this nihility he’s found himself in is a  _ Limbo  _ of sorts. 

Then the ringing starts. 

Which must mean he’s not dead, and Scott was wrong. He now hopes he lives long enough to tell Scott he was wrong.

It gets louder and louder and  _ louder _ , until Steve is forced to open his eyes (when had he shut them?) and suddenly there was  _ everything.  _

It’s clamorous and intense and Steve has to squint against it. Everything is in perpetual motion, constantly shifting and changing. Colors attack on odd angles, leaping from pinks to purples to blues to reds and oranges and to colors Steve doesn’t have a word for. 

He’s still floating, stalled in a motionless state, contrast to everything around him.One lonely island in a sea of mayhem.  _ Not Limbo then,  _ he thinks wrly. The shifting colors hurt his eyes. They stagger and twitch as they move, like a visual record scratch. The  _ shck shck schk  _ with each color change. 

It’s chaos. 

It’s beautiful. 

It’s everything and nothing all at once. 

Steve no longer knows if he’s dead or alive. He can’t think, can’t speak. His tongue feels like cotton in his mouth and his thoughts seem to be following the same stop-start pattern of the soaring colors around him. Just when he can’t take it anymore, when the chaos and calamity around tiptoes past overwhelming, a large crack splinters down in a couple yards in front of him. Bright, blinding light beams out from the breach and it’s somehow impossibly brighter than the chaos around him and he has to close his eyes. But the light, the ethereal all encompassing light, bleeds through this eyelids and he’s forced to bring his hands to his face. He’s distantly aware that he’s screaming, but he doesn’t think any sound is actually coming out. Or if it is, then everything is too loud around him and swallowing the sound before it can be heard. 

He feels a tug at the front of his chest. A literal tug pulling him to the light. He wants to fight it, tries to fight it, struggling against the invisible tentacles that seem to have wrapped themselves around his torso. The light is getting warmer and warmer the closer he gets, and he only then realizes how cold he had been before. 

He’s struck by how much he doesn’t want to embrace the light.  _ Go towards The Light.  _ That’s what all the stories say to do. But Steve doesn’t want to go anywhere near  _ The Light.  _ He wants to go home, to Bucky, to Sam, who are waiting for him. He wants to have a beer with Sam and hold Bucky close and  _ retire  _ because he’s too old and too tired to do anything else. He wants to remember how to paint and wants to learn how to mourn properly and  _ wants and wants and wants.  _

He’s exhausted and thinks he’s in pain, but he can’t really tell anymore as he’s been numb since flying out of the quantum tunnel. Well, more like  _ thrown  _ out of the quantum tunnel. And  _ that _ in and of itself sparks a new fight in him. Someone that isn’t him, but sure as hell looks a lot like him, is in the quantum tunnel right now, on  _ his  _ course, going to  _ his  _ home. He hasn’t been Captain America this long to think it’s anything other than foul play. 

The orbit that he’s caught in has other ideas and with one sharp final tug he’s pulled through the crack. It’s like the world has shifted on its axis and everything has come to a screeching halt. Steve is so thrown off balance by the sudden rush of all his senses coming back online, like he can suddenly hear everything, including his own heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears. He feels both out of body and in body all at once and he just wants the madness of it all to end. 

And then he’s falling. 

_______________

He hits the ground hard, barely able to curl himself into a tight ball to protect his head before the dirt gives him a hard, brutal kiss to his left side. There isn’t an ounce of him that doubted he’d survive the fall (in fact he’s almost positive he’s fallen from much higher places), but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t  _ hurt.  _ He lies there for a moment, forcing deep breaths  _ in out in out  _ to sully the throb taking over the left side of his body. Moving doesn’t seem like an option for the time being. 

The grass is brittle and sharp under his cheek. It’s warm, but there’s no sun beating down on him. It smells like smog and gasoline and dead fish. Distantly, he can hear the soft slap of waves against the shoreline.

What unsettles him is the quiet. By smell alone, he knows he’s near a city, has to be. But there isn’t the bumbling business of millions of inhabitants and car horns that come with the city-life. He pulls himself slowly into a seated position, his bones creaking in protest. A groan escapes his mouth at the pull on his left side, and it’s deafening in the quiet calmness around him. He wraps a gentle hand around his torso, gingerly cupping his ribs as if that will make him feel better. (It doesn’t, but it’s like putting a bandaid on a cut-doesn’t physically help, but mentally does). 

Just as he suspected, it is a city. But it’s not  _ his  _ city. Looking at him is New York, a chrome plated version of it anyway. Every building  _ looks  _ the same. He can spot the Empire State Building, the One World Trade Center, and the Chrysler Building from where he’s seated. But the metallic sheeting throws him off and he can’t spot a single brick on any of the other surrounding buildings. 

Gone is the concrete jungle and standing in her place is a silver wasteland. No birds squawk, no engines rev. There’s nothing but the soft splashes of the Hudson and the sound of his own breathing. 

The city that never sleeps has finally been put to rest, and Steve  _ hates  _ it. He’d grown accustomed to noise, growing up in the tenant that he did, the war, waking up in the 21st century where there was nothing  _ but  _ noise. Noise was never much an issue for Steve, but silence was. 

Silence usually meant disaster. The five years after the first snap had been silent, so unbearably silent that in the initial years, Steve used to make noise just to keep himself sane. Intentionally dropping plates too hard into the sink to hear them clack together, revving the engine of his bike far more than strictly necessary just to let the weight settle in his ears. Natasha had given him a sad, knowing smile every time. 

She is good like that. 

Was good like that. 

He pushes the thought to the back of his mind. Sure, he recognizes it’s not healthy. He  _ knows  _ eventually, he’ll have to talk about Nat, talk about Tony, talk about everything he  _ lost. _ Sam had been worried, in that glorious way that Sam worries. Where his brows furrow and his mouth sets and he looks all kinds of  _ mother hen _ . Steve had missed his particular brand of worry in the last five years. It was the kind of worry that said,  _ I don’t really like what you’re doing right now, so sign me up because you aren’t going at this alone.  _ And that particular brand of worry had been there when he asked,  _ “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”  _ What he didn’t say was,  _ “I don’t think you’ve appropriately processed everything that has happened in the last 72 hours, and I don’t think you should be alone right now.”  _ But Steve assured him he was fine and would be fine.  _ “See you in five seconds,”  _ he’d said. 

He kind of wishes he had Sam here right now. 

There’s a shift in the wind, one he wouldn’t have picked up on had it not been so quiet. The same gut feeling that pulls him to danger is making alarm bells go off in his head. He thinks he can hear soft murmurs, but his ears haven’t stopped ringing since he hit the ground. For the second time today, Steve isn’t alone. 

So he isn’t all that surprised when an arrow lands on his left, sticking out of earth like pointed thumb. 

He  _ is  _ surprised when said arrow blows up, knocking him a few feet to his right.  _ Can I not catch a single break?  _ But that is the cosmic irony of Steve Roger’s life, isn’t it? Who gives the guy that always insists on getting back up a break? 

His entire left side is screaming, and his right side is joining with its own delivery of agony from where he lies. He brings up a hand to left ear, and his hand comes away bloody. That would explain the feeling of water in his ear. Steve lets out a groan, which comes out more of a whine, and hates his life more than a little bit. 

And then hates his life even more when he hears a severely muffed, “ ** _Kamala now!” _ ** and a giant hand is swinging towards his head. 

He’s out before he hits the ground. 

_________________

He comes to with his head throbbing and his stomach in knots and he’s sure he’d be kneeled over right now if there was anything in his stomach. He feels itchy in a way he only does when blood has long since dried and is caked to his skin, which means wherever he is, he’s been here for a while. The air tastes stale and the smell of human body order makes his eyes want to water. He can feel cuffs on his wrists, the kind that are used for holding something strong. He knows because he’s been in these kind before. 

Hushed voices speak to his left, but he can’t make out anything they’re saying with his bum ear. The voices cut off abruptly, followed by quick footsteps towards him. 

“He’s awake,” the voice sounds familiar. Female, authoritative in a way that sounds so much like- 

Rough hands grab him and situate him into an upright position. His body protests this greatly. He swallows the sounds against his teeth. 

“You might as well open your eyes, buddy. No use in pretending,” a gruff male voice speaks. It startles him how much it sounds like Clint. Steve’s eyes fly open against his will (though he would have liked to keep them closed, just to be petulant). 

It sounds like Clint, because it  _ is _ Clint. Steve has to do a double take, and then a triple take. 

_ “Clint?”  _ The name is flying out of his mouth before he can stop them. Last he saw of Clint, he was heading back to his farm with his family- 

Then he remembers  _ Other Steve  _ and Chrome-Plated New York and the  _ colors.  _ The world shifts again, and this time he does kneel over and dry heave the non-existent contents of his stomach. Wherever he is, whoever the hell that is, are not the places and people he knows. Vivid imagines of  _ Other Steve’s  _ cold eyes float to the forefront of his mind. And Steve is very afraid as the realization hits him. 

Not of dying. No, Steve stopped being afraid of death a _ long _ time ago. 

He might not be able to make it  _ home.  _ These faces are achingly familiar, but they are strangers to him. And that in and of itself, is terrifying. He has to take a deep breath to keep from gagging again. 

“ _ Jesus Christ _ . Get him up!” The woman barks, and rough hands grab ahold of him again and push him upright. This time, there’s an arrow in his face. 

“How do you know my name,” Not-Clint growls. Steve looks from the arrow to the woman, who is, as he suspected, Carol Danvers- or rather  _ Not-Carol Danvers.  _

The arrow is drawn back another centimeter. “I said,  _ how do you know my goddamn name?”  _

“I-” Steve starts, unsure of how to continue. Because how does one explain that they think they got dropped into some wack alternate universe? The answer is that it’s impossible and Steve is more screwed than he originally thought. “I know you?” He finishes lamely.  _ Great tactical mind of his century Steve Rogers everybody.  _

Clint huffs a humorless laugh. “You  _ know  _ me? You’re gonna have to do better than that. What database has my name on it huh? Is that how you found us?” 

“I don't- I’m not-” he splutters. His head is still pounding and it’s hard to think straight. Databases?  _ Found them?  _ Last he checked,  _ they  _ were the ones that found  _ him.  _

“Oh come  _ on,  _ Captain! Was this your play?” He sneers. “Play dead until we get you here? Then what?” The use of  _ Captain _ makes him intake sharply _ .  _ He hopes he doesn’t mean what he thinks he means. 

“Barton,” Carol murmurs beside him. She’s looking at him curiously. Her body language says  _ distrust,  _ but by the looks of it, her mind isn’t completely convinced. Steve could work with that. 

“What, Danvers?” He says without taking his eyes off Steve. This Clint has a fierceness to him that his Clint doesn’t. “It was way too fucking easy to nab him, and you know it.” 

“I do,” she crosses her arms and juts her chin out. “So why don’t we let him talk.” 

_ “Let him talk?”  _ Clint cries. This time he does flick his eyes to Carol. “Are you outta your  _ mind?  _ I should be putting an arrow between this asshole’s eyes!” His attention is back on Steve and the bow is drawn as taut as it gets. 

“Clint,” there’s a warning in her voice now, and Clint visibly deflates. Interesting. “I don’t disagree, but he could have valuable information.” 

“Lady Carol is correct,” a new voice joins them, booming in a way Steve hasn’t heard in a long,  _ long  _ time. Standing among them is Thor. He looks thin, too thin. His face is jaunt and his eyes are hollowed. His beard lays unkempt and stringy against his chest. 

He looks a lot like Steve used to in the 30s, when the winters were bitter and he was sick as a dog. It makes him uncomfortable to see his friend look so frail.  _ These aren’t your friends,  _ he reminds himself. He has a feeling he’s going to have to keep reminding himself of that. Still, Thor and frail are two words Steve never would have put together. 

The arrow drops a micrometer, and Steve all but sighs in relief. 

“And if he doesn’t have the information we want?” Clint asks through gritted teeth. 

Carol shrugs in feigned nonchalance. “Then you put as many arrows in him as you want.” 

“Aye,” Thor agrees, and Steve now knows how it feels to be on the receiving end of that godly glare. 

All three look at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to start the conversation. Which is a terrible way to conduct an interrogation. If he  _ were  _ the captain they think he is, they would have had to do a little better than one arrow. But since he’s  _ not  _ and desperately needs to prove before they allow Clint to turn his brain into a kabob, he starts. 

“I’m not from here,” he says with as much gusto as he can manage. If he sounds convinced enough, then maybe he can convince him that he’s not the Steve they’re after. 

Clint snorts and the corner of Carol’s mouth lifts into a sardonic little smile that tells him they  _ do not  _ believe him. Even Thor seems to find it funny. 

“Yea, alright man,” Clint rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you start by telling us when Hydra is launching their big plan huh?”  _ Hydra? Captain? Does that mean-  _

“I’m not Hydra!” It takes a very deliberate effort to keep his voice level. 

Clint swears under his breath. “Look Carol we’re clearly not going to get anything out of him let’s just-” 

“We haven’t even begun to properly interrogate-” 

“He’s  _ mocking-”  _

_ “Enough!”  _ Thor yells, “You two continue to bicker like children while he-” 

“I can prove it,” he whispers, mostly to himself, not paying them any mind. He’s staring at Mjolnir. “I can prove it!” He says again, louder, effectively cutting all three off. They level him a glare of their own. 

“I said I wasn’t from here,” he nods at him. “And I can prove it.” He pauses then, rattling the cuffs. “But I’m going to need you to get me out of these first.” 

The tensions breaks as Clint  _ howls,  _ dropping the bow completely to put his hands on his knees. “Oh  _ Christ,”  _ he gasps. “This guy is a  _ riot!”  _

Steve looks down at his wrists. His hands are still free, they cuffs are just clunky and heavy and take up a majority of his forearm. But it should still work. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. He takes a deep breath and holds both arms up, palms stretched out to Thor. “Mjolnir,” he whispers.  _ God please. Please please please.  _ “To me.” 

The air is super charged. Unlike the final battle with Thanos, Steve really has no idea if Mjolnir will come to him. It feels like an eternity. But then- 

Then Mjolnir is flying from Thor’s grasp and into Steve’s. He channels a small zap of lightning to get the cuffs off, and they fall to the ground with a satisfying  _ CLANK.  _

_ Thank you.  _ He whispers in his mind.  _ Thank you thank you thank you.  _ He swears he can feel Mjolnir hum in his hand. But that might also be the adrenaline, making him shake. 

“That’s impossible,” Thor gasps. Clint and Carol are stunned to silence. Steve can feel the power rippling through him.  _ Whoever wields this hammer possess the power of Thor.  _ It could be addicting, this power. But Steve doesn’t want it. He’s made his point. 

“I told you,” he says, walking to Thor and holding the hammer out to him. Thor takes it with poorly concealed wonder. “I’m not from here.” 

Another beat of silence passes. 

“Who are you?” Carol demands. Her face is closed off. 

“Steve Rogers.” 

All three go silent again, until Clint breaks it. 

“But,” Clint starts. “If you’re who you say you are. And you’re here. Then-” 

“Oh  _ fuck,”  _ Carol swears and turns quickly on her heel, pulling out her phone in the process and disappearing through a sliding door. 

Clint and Thor watch her go, both wearing anxious expressions, although Clint’s is filled with mild terror, and Thor’s is dripping in resignation. 

“What’s going on?” Steve asks. Where there’s a problem, there’s usually a Steve Rogers ready to throw himself into it. 

“I think Hydra just launched their Op,” Clint says, still looking at the door as if Carol was going to walk about through it. 

Steve sighs. “What Op?” 

Clint’s eyes slide back to him. It strikes him how much younger he looks than his Clint. Or maybe it’s just the fear in his eyes that makes him look young. 

“Operation: Multiverse,” he says in a flat tone. Steve sucks in a sharp breath before he continues. “Objective: Obtain a new Winter Soldier.” 

Steve feels his blood turn to ice. 

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters are mine. All rights to Marvel. Please drop a kudo or comment my crops are dying and my cats are starving. Thank you!!!


End file.
